IV.
Darcy & Penelope (July 1814)
Georgiana did not want to promenade. Instead, she was determined to stay at home and play the pianoforte. Miss Swan did not try to persuade her, clearly feeling nervous and barely touching her morning tea. Darcy looked between his sister and his ward solemnly, wondering at the lives of young ladies.
When it came time, he came to collect Miss Swan. She was wearing a gown of blue and a gold pelisse, her white gloves in her hand.
“You are not to wear a bonnet?” he asked her solicitously.
She shook her head, her dark hair catching the light from where it was pinned on her head. “No,” she informed him. “I don’t want my vision to be obstructed.”
“Indeed,” Darcy agreed, taking up his hat and walking stick. “Are you certain Georgiana will not come?”
“She says she will not,” Miss Swan affirmed, biting her lip and glancing back toward the music room where the sound of the pianoforte playing wafted toward them. “I thought perhaps I should tell her—but I did not have the words—”
“Undoubtedly,” Darcy suggested, “she will read of it anon in Lady Whistledown.”
Miss Swan had the modesty to blush.
Still, he led her out to the phaeton and helped her step into it. Darcy took his place across from Miss Swan, and soon they were conveyed to Regents Park. Escorting Miss Swan into the park, he felt the presence of his ward against his arm. “Tell me if you see him,” he murmured to her.
Darcy tilted his head at Lord and Lady Wentworth.
“You don’t know what he looks like?” she whispered desperately.
Looking down at her, Darcy assured, “I have seen Bridgerton about at the club, I am certain. Still, two sets of eyes are better than one set.” He tipped his cane toward Lord Lumley.
They walked in this way for several minutes, until Darcy thought he heard a young woman call out, “Pen,” and he turned to see dark hair and pale pink lips in blue silks rush toward yellow satin and startling blue eyes. He pondered the sight for a moment before Miss Swan squeezed his arm and his attention was called away again.
In front of them stood none other than the Viscount Bridgerton, looking at Miss Swan intently. He had the woman who appeared to be Dowager Viscountess on his arm.
“Lord Bridgerton,” Darcy greeted, nodding.
Bridgerton glanced at him and then offered his hand. “Darcy.”
“May I introduce my ward, Miss Isabella Swan?”
For a moment it seemed that Bridgerton was mouthing ‘Isabella’ to himself, before a smile overtook his face. “Miss Swan,” he greeted, taking her hand and kissing the back of it lightly. “It is a pleasure to finally make your full acquaintance.—Would you care to promenade?—with Mr. Darcy’s permission, of course.”
Darcy made a signal to release Miss Swan and she took Bridgerton’s free arm as the Dowager Viscountess released her hold on her son, coming to stand next to Darcy. She looked up at Darcy with her bright blue gaze with a question in her gaze. “It appears,” she opened with, “that the mystery in Lady Whistledown has been solved.”
He tipped his hat to her. “I am afraid I have known of it for a few days prior to Lady Whistledown.”
“Indeed,” she agreed, falling into step beside him as the two chaperones took up a respectable position behind the couple. “I understand I am soon to welcome Miss Swan into my household as a daughter.”
Darcy turned to her and took her in coolly. “I had not known the Viscount’s preferences were so marked.”
“They are,” she confirmed. “He is quite determined. Tell me, does Miss Swan have a preference for almond paste?”
Startled at the question, Darcy turned and stopped, staring at the Dowager Viscountess. Almond paste was the one confection Miss Swan would always eat, even when she claimed not to be hungry.
“I thought as much,” the Dowager Viscountess mused, her parasol in her hand. “They do seem to make a lovely couple.”
Darcy did not really have an opinion one way or the other. It had been his hope to wait another year and then present both Miss Swan and Georgiana to Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte together, and they would share their first season. This misalliance rather muddled those plans, but he was not such a cruel guardian that he would deny his ward her happiness, as long as the Viscount’s philandering days were over.
He breathed out through his nose.
Keeping an eye out for yellow satin and ginger hair, Darcy nonetheless saw nothing.
The promenade lasted no longer than half an hour before Darcy whisked Miss Swan home, with promises from the Viscount that he would call on the morrow during visiting hours.
“I hope that was well done,” Darcy opened, as the phaeton began its short trip to Hanover Square.
“It was strange having everyone stare at us,” Miss Swan admitted, looking down at the people in the street. “When we’re alone—”
“You should not be alone, Miss Swan,” Darcy reminded her, but she only looked up at him and gave him a soft smile.
“When we’re alone,” she reiterated, “no one is there to see.”
“That is exactly the problem,” Darcy pointed out. “You are not to be alone with a man until you are married to him.”
“I am alone with you,” she noted, a slight light in her big doe eyes.
“You are my ward,” he argued a bit too harshly. “It is not the same.”
They fell silent after that. When they arrived back at Darcy House, he allowed Miss Swan to go to the music room and tell Georgiana what she would, and he returned to his study.
That moment in Regents Park had been most peculiar. There were surely many women, in all stratospheres of society, called “Pen”—but to hear the name had startled him. Darcy thought of his own Pen, of her soft curves, of her warm complexion, of her sparkling blue eyes, of her ginger curls, of her ample breasts. “But she is not my Pen,” he reminded himself as he looked into a tumbler of brandy. “Never mine.” He would see her on Thursday. Until then, there was Lord Bridgerton and a possible thrashing was in order.
On the next day, Darcy had Bridgerton shown into his study first, holding cornflowers and roses.
“Do I have to call you out?” he asked, point blank, offering neither a drink nor a chair.
Lord Bridgerton appeared cool and looked over at him. “That would be for the lady to decide. Has she made any complaints?”
“Miss Swan never complains about anything. I could dress her in rags and feed her gruel, and she would still be grateful.” He sighed but looked Lord Bridgerton in the eye. “She is not yet out.”
“How old is Miss Swan?” Bridgerton asked carefully.
“She is seventeen years of age.”
Bridgerton nodded. It was of an age to marry, but ladies were typically not presented to Her Majesty, the Queen until they were eighteen. “I should still like to see her.”
“Miss Swan,” Darcy informed him, “is with my sister, Miss Darcy, who is even younger than she.” He sent a warning look.
“I understand,” Bridgerton promised and so was shown out of the study to the young ladies who were with their companion, Mrs. Ainsley.
Of course, Miss Swan did not speak a word about the visit. It was Georgiana who spoke about it the next day at breakfast. “Do you think he will come again, Isabella?” she questioned. “That is, Lord Bridgerton?”
Miss Swan was eating a piece of toast and drinking tea. “Perhaps,” she agreed.
“He really is terribly polite, Brother,” Georgiana informed him. “He was ever so attentive to Isabella. It was really quite the surprise.—Do you find him handsome, Isabella?”
Pausing, Miss Swan considered. “Yes, very handsome.”
Darcy glanced over at her, thinking that she had not completed her thought.
“However did you meet?” Georgiana pressed.
“Georgiana—” Darcy warned. “Let us not pry into the secrets of Miss Swan’s heart.”
Seeming a little disappointed, Georgiana nonetheless heeded Darcy and went back to her scrambled eggs.
Miss Swan sent him a look of gratitude and he nodded to her.
The dreams persisted just as Lord Bridgerton persisted. Darcy found himself alone among the paper flowers. They had grown so full that they now reached his knees, unfurling up toward the candied clouds that passed above. He looked around and wondered where Wickham had gone, whether Miss Lydia and Miss Elizabeth were hiding here abouts.
There was a shiver near the trees.
Turning, he saw Pen hiding between the trees in her blue cape, her hood pinned up to hide her head of glorious ginger hair.
Reaching down, Darcy plucked a pink paper rose from the ground and brought it to his nose, only to smell the gentle scent of midnight. He stood up and strode through the paper flowers toward Pen and the forest, until he reached the end of the meadow. “Pen,” he greeted.
She blushed, “I didna mean fer ye tah see me. No one’s supposed tah see me.” She turned toward the depths of the trees, as if she meant to run from him, but Darcy reached out and grabbed her elbow gently.
“Do not flee from me, Pen,” he begged.
Turning, Pen’s bright blue eyes searched his. “Why should I naugh’ go?”
“Can you not see that I want you here—with me?” Darcy breathed out, holding out the paper rose to her.
Pen bit her luscious pink lower lip, making his eyes flit down to her mouth, and Darcy made a noise in the back of his throat. She was all that was delightfulness and all of what he should not desire.—and yet Darcy did desire her. He could admit that to himself, at least, in his dreams.
Her gloved hand carefully reached out for the rose and their fingers brushed against each other. Pen drew the rose to her nose and inhaled, a soft smile on her lips.
Then there was rustling in the meadow and Darcy crouched into the forest, holding Pen close to him behind the line of trees. Her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder and neck, and her soft curves bent into the line of his frame, causing his body to react to the sweet torture that was this strange waif.
Wickham, in the red coat of an officer, came out into the meadow, his hands catching the gloved fingers of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Her sunflower hair was flowing down her back, and her white muslin gown blew out around her as Wickham twirled her around.
“Who is thah’?” Pen breathed into Darcy’s ear. “She looks like Miss Lydia!”
Wickham and Miss Elizabeth danced faster and faster, laughing, and Darcy crouched further into the shadows, bringing Pen with him.
“That, Pen, is Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy murmured into her ear, drawing her hood back with his fingers. “She is Miss Lydia’s older sister. Wickham—” he paused, uncertain what to say.
“Wickham?” she pressed, turning her face toward him, the moonlight flashing white on her cheeks.
“Wickham prefers Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy confessed, his eyes arrested on Pen’s face. “He ran away with the wrong sister.” Miss Elizabeth, at the time, had been safely up in Derbyshire with him, perhaps expecting a second offer of marriage—an offer of marriage that would now no longer materialize, not now with Pen—
Pen sighed, her breath tickling Darcy’s neck. “Ain’t thah’ always the way?” she mused.
The dance continued in the meadow, the paper flowers of pink and blue and purple being crushed underfoot, until Wickham and Miss Elizabeth were nearly panting in each other’s arms. Darcy, however, was paying them no mind. He had Pen in his arms and her sweet breath was rushing against his cheek, her succulent red lips so close to his. Thinking that this was only a dream, Darcy leaned forward, determined to taste the sweet nectar of Pen’s lips—only to wake up in his own bed.
Disoriented, Darcy looked about himself and groaned loudly. It was well before dawn. He punched his pillow and turned over, thinking of the servant girl who had so completely captured his attention. Closing his eyes, Darcy secretly hoped he would dream of her again.
A single pink rose that smelled of moonlight rested underneath his pillow, only to be found later that morning by a maid.
Of course, Bridgerton came Thursday morning with pink and purple roses, which made Miss Swan smile brightly. Darcy wondered at the state of Bridgerton’s hothouse to produce purple roses. Still, if it made Miss Swan happy, that was what was important. As soon as Wickham’s wedding was over that afternoon, Darcy would begin to make inquiries.
He left before Bridgerton, with Mrs. Ainsley firmly in charge, and he entered his carriage to make his way to Bloomsbury. Darcy was sure to be early as he had to pick up Wickham, who was often vain about his appearance. He wished he was stopping in Grosvenor Square, but Pen had made it quite plain that she wished to travel separately from Wickham and his reputation.—not that Darcy could blame her.
When Darcy arrived at the ‘Golden Sceptre,’ he entered the pub and found the innkeeper behind the bar. Tipping his hat to him, Darcy took the back stairs two at a time and rapped on door Number Four with the head of his walking stick. He did not get a chance to open it because Wickham himself appeared in shirtsleeves and an open waistcoat, clearly in the process of getting dressed.
“Is that what you are wearing to my wedding?” Wickham demanded.
“Only the family colors,” Darcy argued. He was indeed wearing tan britches, a deep green waistcoat, a dark green coat, and a white neckcloth. His hat was black instead of gray. “What is wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” Wickham sighed, looking down at himself. “I am simply—” He sighed again and indicated his ensemble.
Darcy quickly put down his cane and his hat, before going to Wickham and buttoning up his waistcoat. “You will look dashing at your wedding,” he promised. “Miss Lydia will be struck quite dumb.”
“Miss Lydia,” Wickham sighed. “I told you: she was the wrong sister.”
Darcy at first did not answer. He finished with the waistcoat and took the neckcloth which he began to tie expertly as he had done this hundreds of times before for Wickham. They had always been more brothers than friends, even before Darcy had known the awful truth.
“You will still get to see her,” he placated, “on family visits to Hertfordshire.”
Wickham looked up.
“Surely that is something, Wickham.” Darcy finished with the neckcloth and began to look for the red military coat.
“Sweet torture,” Wickham disagreed.
“Sweet torture is all you will get,” Darcy told him. “You ran away with Miss Lydia. Honor must be served. Still, they look so similarly—surely—”
He never would want to suggest that a man could substitute one sister for another, but if he could hint and Wickham could make the conclusion for himself, well, perhaps today might be easier for him.
Darcy picked up the coat and held it open for Wickham who turned backward to it and put his arms through, Darcy lifting it up to settle on his shoulders.
“I wonder why you never marry, Darce,” Wickham mused, changing the conversation. “We both know you will never marry your cousin, Anne De Bourg, but surely there is someone else.”
Darcy’s mind first flicked to Pen, to her luscious lips and round cheeks, before he forced himself to think of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. The first could never be his and the second was lost to him, although he no longer felt any emotion toward her.
“I have not found a worthy sister for Georgiana,” Darcy stated, his overused excuse. “Who could ever reach that lofty goal?”
“Who indeed?” Wickham agreed, clearly thinking. He turned, now in his uniform, though he still needed to put on his sword, and presented himself to his childhood friend. “How do I look?”
“Fit for His Majesty’s Regimentals,” Darcy promised. “Everyone, not just Miss Lydia, will be dazzled by you.”
“Shame neither Denny nor Carter could get off to serve as witness.” Wickham went over to his decanter of wine. He poured two glasses and offered one to Darcy, who accepted.
“Best to keep this within the family and as private as possible.”
Wickham scoffed. “We have a servant serving as witness!”
“She is the bride’s choice,” Darcy argued with him. “It would not do to have family serve as witness in case the validity of the marriage were called into question.”
Grumbling, Wickham did not disagree.
Two glasses of wine later, the groom was ready to depart, and Darcy walked him down the stairs along with his packed bag, and out to the waiting carriage.
When Wickham settled himself, he asked, “What, no serving girl?”
“She is coming separately,” Darcy informed him. “We will see her and the bride at the church.”
“May wonders never cease,” Wickham murmured as he looked out the window, just as the carriage started up. Looking up, he said, “Today is my wedding day.”
“Yes, I had realized.”
“I had always hoped to be at Pemberley.”
Darcy looked at him hard. “Unfortunately, you eloped to London and never made it to Gretna Green nor, indeed, to Derbyshire.”
“We had meant to hide from Colonel Forester.” Yes, and hiding was a definite necessity given that the elopement was unsanctioned by the lady’s family and the lady had been under Colonel Forester’s protection. If Darcy were Mr. Bennet, he would not only call Wickham out, he would call out Colonel Forster, or at least demand some form of satisfaction. Calling out military men was always a rum business. They tended to be better shots.
“Well, you have a respectable wedding,” Darcy soothed. “I have put you up at the ‘St. George’ for the next three nights. You will be very comfortable.”
“Mighty decent of you,” Wickham thanked him, though he sounded like he expected such a gesture, which was probably the right of it.
Darcy did not reply. Instead, the carriage fell into silence and they made it to St. Alban’s church in good time. They arrived before the bride and before Pen, but not before the cleric. Darcy soon went up to the man, giving over the license, and then settled in a pew with Wickham to wait for the others to arrive.
Pen arrived next and quite surprised Darcy.
She was dressed in silks of deep gray and her hair was toppled on her head in the latest style with a ribbon of black accentuating it. “Pen,” Darcy greeted, taking in her complete loveliness, “you—”
“I can dress up wit’ the bes’ of ‘em,” she told him with a mischievous light in her eyes. “Sometimes I mus’ go intah company with me lady.”
Darcy could hear Wickham coming up behind him, but he frankly cared not.
“You are able to come to the wedding feast, I hope,” Darcy checked.
“Oh, aye,” she agreed. “Me mistress does naugh’ need me ‘til tonigh’,” she promised. She saw Wickham behind him and curtsied. “Me congratulations, Cap’ain Wickham.”
“My, my, my, little Pen,” he greeted. “You look quite the lady, though of course you do not sound like one.”
Darcy glared at his childhood friend over his shoulder. Members of the ton often liked to have the distinction of rank preserved, but Wickham was the son of a steward, for all intents and purposes, and was clearly reaching above himself by marrying a gentleman’s daughter. Now was not the time to point out rank especially when Pen was doing them a favor by serving as witness.
Pen just looked at Wickham balefully. Turning to Darcy, she asked, “Shall we sih’?”
“Indeed, Miss Pen,” he agreed, offering her his arm and ignoring Wickham. He led her to the front pew of the church on the left, signaling the groom’s side of the guests, and listened to Wickham who came up and slid in beside him.
“I have been wondering, Miss Pen,” Darcy asked, just to make pleasant conversation, “Is ‘Pen’ short for ‘Penny’? ‘Penelope’? ‘Peony’? I am certain I can come up with other variants—”
“I am cer’ain ye will know if ye check the regis’ry,” she told him quietly. “Buh’ ih’s Penelope.”
“Penelope,” he repeated, trying it out on his lips. “How suitable.”
She glanced at him in confusion.
“The faithful wife of Odysseus,” Darcy explained. “A Queen in her own right.” (Darcy could hear Wickham scoff on his other side). “It suits you.”
Pen turned to him. “No one ‘as ever told me thah’ before,” she told him in awe. “Me mum jus’ liked the sound of ih’.”
Darcy opened his mouth to respond, but there was a commotion at the front of the church. They all turned and Miss Lydia appeared on the arm of her uncle, dressed in yellow muslin and lace, a bonnet over her yellow hair. Darcy nudged Wickham, who seemed to be struck dumb by the sight of his bride, and Wickham quickly scampered up to the altar to await Miss Lydia.
The wedding was short and perfunctory, and Darcy was soon signing his name to the registry, handing the quill to Pen after him. If he went back to look at her signature, it was out of simple curiosity. What he found surprised him. She had signed her name ‘Penelope Featherington’ as in the late ‘Lord Featherington’ who had been killed over gambling debts.—as in the Featherington House where he dropped her off by the servants’ entrance. Even Darcy had heard of that scandal of the Featheringtons, although an old and honorable family in their own right.
Quickly hurrying from the book, Darcy escorted Pen to her unmarked carriage and promised to meet her at Gracechurch Street.
The wedding cake was fine, the tea warm, and if the happy couple did not seem in love, then the wedding couple was not unlike most society couples. Darcy and Pen sat beside each other and made comments about the feast to one another, so much so that Darcy knew they excited comment from the Gardiners, but if Penelope was the daughter (or the niece) of the late Lord Featherington, it hardly mattered.
Her accent, however, proved a question. Also, her relation to Lady Whistledown was perplexing.
Darcy escorted Pen back to her carriage and decided, as he kissed her hand boldly, that he would call on the Featheringtons tomorrow as soon as he escorted Bridgerton to the music room with Miss Swan and Georgiana. He would get to the bottom of this.
Darcy dreamt again of paper flowers that night. Wickham was dancing with his bride and Darcy was sitting among the flowers, just watching them. There was a rustle behind him and he turned to see Pen.
“I know who you are,” he warned.
She paused before sitting down beside him, dressed once again in her grey dress.
“Are you in mourning for Lord Featherington?” he asked her, as if it were actually Pen sitting beside him and not a dream vision of her.
Pen looked shocked but then her pretty cheeks blushed pink. “Yes. Papa died, you see.” Her voice was light, smooth, sophisticated, and not the voice of a servant.
“Who is the new Lord Featherington?” he asked.
“We,” she licked her kissable lips. “We do not know. Mama says that he is making us suffer by not appearing.”
Darcy looked at her sadly and reached out, lighting his fingers on her hand. “I am sorry.”
She took a deep breath and looked at their hands. “He will come soon,” she murmured, her voice devoid of a lower class accent. “He must. He simply must.” Pen looked up and watched Wickham dance with Lydia. “At least they seem in love now.”
“For how long?” Darcy wondered. “Soon he will be pining after Miss Elizabeth again.”
“How dreadful to want one sister and be married to another,” Pen murmured, her bright blue eyes arrested on the couple. Her gaze flicked to Darcy.
“That shall not happen to you,” Darcy promised.
“You do not know that,” she murmured, leaning away from him. “I believe Mama thinks I shall end an old maid.”
Darcy leaned forward and then fell head first into the paper flowers, falling, falling, fallen, until he woke up on the floor of his bedchamber, alone and without Pen, petals scattered across the counterpane.
Of course, Bridgerton could not appear early enough for Darcy. At breakfast he knew he was particularly taciturn and even Miss Swan, who was usually uncommunitive, noticed. Her large doe eyes focused on him as she ate her toast before she looked over at Georgiana in question, who similarly was regarding him. He did not know how to quell their fears or suspicions, so he just sat in his chair at the head of the table, drinking his morning tea.
When Bridgerton arrived at ten past eleven, Darcy told him, “You will be chaperoned by Mrs. Ainsley today.”
Bridgerton did not look terribly surprised. “I should like a private audience at White’s with you—tonight, if that’s convenient.”
Ah, the conversation. Dowries, expectations, Miss Swan’s heritage. It was only to be expected. Darcy clapped him on the back, though his heart was not in it. He had only begun his inquiries into Lord Bridgerton. “I will be there after ten,” he told the Viscount before going for his hat and walking stick.
His first stop was to a florist. Darcy did not know what Pen would like. He stood around stupidly, just looking at flowers until he decided on peonies, remembering his initial guess as to Pen’s name.
Darcy had been to Grosvenor Square many times in his life, but never for the purpose of calling on a young woman. He gave his horse over to a groom and inquired of a footman if Miss Penelope Featherington was receiving callers.
The man stared at him before replying in the affirmative.
Darcy was brought up to a sitting room and then was announced. A woman, of an age to be Pen’s mother, graciously received him. She had auburn hair coiffed on top of her head, the same blue eyes as Pen, and was wearing the most outlandish dress.
“I do not believe we are acquainted, Mr. Darcy,” she apologized as she ushered him into the room. “Are you a friend of the late Lord Featherington’s, perhaps?” She looked up at him in question, leading him toward the sofa.
Casting his eyes about, he saw Pen sitting in a window in a bright yellow dress, a book in her hand, a stupefied look on her face.
“I am here to call on your daughter, Lady Featherington—Miss Penelope,” he qualified as he saw that there were three young ladies.
“Penelope?” Lady Featherington asked in bewilderment before she smiled brightly. “But of course. Penelope would be happy to receive you.” Lady Featherington indicated her daughter and Pen closed her mouth (which had been hanging open) and quickly set her book aside.
Preferring not to be under the gaze of her mother and sisters, Darcy approached Pen and held out the peonies. “I did not know your favorite flower,” he apologized.
“No,” she agreed, “but I like peonies just fine,” her voice refined and no longer thick with a servant’s accent. She brought them to her nose and smelled them. She turned to sit back in the window and he drew a chair up so he could join her. “How did you find me? Was it the carriage?”
“The registry book,” he admitted. “You signed your name.”
She sighed and glanced out the window. “I thought you were far enough away when I signed my name,” she admitted.
Shifting slightly, he admitted, “I was curious.”
Pen looked at him in shock. “Curious? Are you here because you are—curious? I shall never hear the end of it from Mama.”
“No, I am not here because I am curious,” he admitted. “I had hoped you would know why I am here.”
She looked at him, assessingly. “I do not know why you are here, Mr. Darcy.”
“I came to call on you,” he told her patiently, “as a suitor. I thought my marked admiration for you in the carriage was obvious.”
Laughing a little, she admitted, “Not a single member of the ton wishes to even be seen with me on the dancefloor. I do not believe—”
“Pen,” he murmured, leaning forward and placing a hand carefully on the cushion beside her, causing Pen to look up at him with her startling green eyes. “You know I admire you.”
“But you thought I was just a servant—”
“My admiration has only grown knowing that you are a young lady of substance.”
She looked perplexed.
Darcy leaned back. “I am quite impressed that you go about London posing as a servant, your mother none the wiser, and all in the service of Lady Whistledown. I suppose you are the only person in London who knows her identity.”
“—Yes,” she agreed carefully. “You should not be aware that I know.”
“I shall tell no one, Pen,” he promised earnestly. “Why do you do it?”
She looked at him desperately. “I have to do something if no one will dance with me.”
Darcy gazed at her, his eyes lingering on her round cheeks and her luscious lips. “I must confess I am not fond of society. I had not planned to attend any balls until my ward and my sister are presented next year. I had, in fact, lately been at my estate in Derbyshire until I came to search for Wickham, with no initial plans to come to London until Christmastide.”
“We are here for the season, of course,” Pen admitted. “I was presented last year.”
It was her second season, then. Pen, then, knew the pain of being placed on the shelf. He would never wish her that pain. He looked at her steadily and then turned to Lady Featherington who was speaking softly with one of her other daughters and fanning herself.
“Lady Featherington,” he asked, “when is the next society ball? I never keep track of my invitations. My ward, Miss Swan, knows to just send my regrets to any and all invitations not from my aunt, the Countess of Matlock.”
“Oh,” Lady Featherington murmured, her fan flapping. “The Smith-Smythes have a concert tonight.”
The Featherington girl next to her grimaced.
Lady Featherington tapped her with a fan before turning back to Darcy. “They are not the most—musical—of young ladies, but what they lack in ability they make up for in sheer enthusiasm.”
“Indeed,” Darcy agreed. “Perhaps I will see you there, Miss Penelope,” he said publicly to the entire room.
“She will most certainly be in attendance,” her mother answered for her.—“How marvelous.” She patted the back of her hair.
Darcy turned back to Pen who was blushing. “I shall take my leave of you as I fear I am overwhelming you,” he murmured. He picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Tonight,” she agreed as she stood to see him go.
Saying his goodbyes to the rest of the ladies, Darcy exited the room and agreed that it was a job well done.
When he returned to Hanover Square, he found that Bridgerton was still there. Fortunately, Miss Swan kept his correspondence in order, so he found the Smith-Smythe invitation, which had already been answered in the negative, before he retracted his regrets and sent his acceptance post haste with the footman.
Bridgerton left just before luncheon and he was glad to see that Miss Swan had gained somewhat of an appetite.
“I am going out tonight,” he told the ladies.
“Oh?” Georgiana asked, taking a bite of her chicken. “Not just the club?”
“No, I went and accepted the Smith-Smythes invitation, Miss Swan.”
She looked at him in confusion before she nodded. “Is it likely you are going to change your mind about other invitations?” she inquired quietly.
“It is quite possible, yes.”
“I shall check with you before refusing any invitations in the future then,” she promised, sharing a look with Georgiana before going back to her meal.
The ladies were silent for several more minutes and Darcy was considering changing the topic of conversation, when Georgiana asked, “Does this have to do with a young lady?”
He paused and considered. He had only of late called on Miss Penelope Featherington, but he had known Pen for well over a week and he knew her quite well. “—Yes,” he agreed.
“Perhaps it will be in Lady Whistledown,” Georgiana suggested to Miss Swan, who hummed in agreement.
The idea did not sit well with Darcy. He did not want Lady Whistledown commenting on his romance with Pen, especially when Pen was her co-conspirator. He did not like it that Miss Swan was going to undoubtedly be a subject of conversation now that she had been seen with Lord Bridgerton, but this was quite different. He would have to talk to Pen about it.
The rest of lunch passed with the conversation turning to music, which was a frequent topic of conversation.
Darcy spent the rest of the afternoon in his study and was then careful with his toilette when he was preparing to go out to the Smith-Smythe Concert. He was certain not to be particularly early, but he was also not fashionably late. He was happy to see Pen who was in attendance with her mother and at least one of her sisters. This evening she was in a bright pink which did nothing for her complexion.
“Philippa is with Mr. Finch,” she told Darcy when he went to fetch her a lemonade. “They are engaged to be married.”
“Indeed,” he commented, having never heard of Mr. Finch.
She gave him a small smile. “Our lives are in suspension until the new Lord Featherington arrives. It is quite disquieting. We cannot imagine where he can be.”
“Heirs are often difficult,” he agreed, thinking of his own Darcy second cousin who would inherit Pemberley if he did not produce an heir. However, there was every reason to hope. Darcy was seven and twenty, quite a young man, healthy, strong, and he was actively pursuing a young woman in matrimony.
“Are you musical?” Pen asked just as a young woman with sharp blue eyes and dark hair appeared, grabbing Pen’s hand.
“Lord Black is here,” she complained darkly. “You must hide me.”
Looking slightly uncomfortable, Pen murmured, “Eloise. You are practically engaged to Lord Black. Wherever could I hide you except in one of the private rooms?”
This Eloise’s eyes lit up. “One of the private rooms!” she exclaimed, suddenly looking about. “Perhaps if I go out that door,” she mused, pointing off to their right.
“El,” Pen sighed. “May I present Mr. Darcy of Pemberley? Mr. Darcy, my oldest friend, Miss Eloise Bridgerton.”
Darcy bowed to her, but Miss Eloise Bridgerton was not paying attention. “Charmed,” she murmured in his general direction before she began looking about again. “Oh, no, Lord Black is most certainly here,” and then she darted off toward the door she had found earlier.
Pen glanced after her and then turned toward the door. “Lord Black is here,” she commented, turning to Darcy. “Lord Black,” she told Darcy, “has been in love with Eloise since she was sixteen years old, and she has been running away from him ever since.”
“Oh dear,” Darcy murmured. “It seems the Lady shall not be conquered.”
“She is determined not to be,” Pen agreed. “I hate to see her running about like this.”
“Perhaps,” Darcy suggested, “she is just waiting for a reason to stand still.”
Pen looked up with him, her luscious pink lips pressed together in a line. “Do you think?” she wondered.
“I do,” he agreed. “That person, however, may not be Lord Black.”
“Poor Lord Black,” Pen sighed as Darcy offered her his arm and showed her to their seats.
The crowds milled around them as everyone took their places and the four young women of the Smith-Smythe family came on stage with their stringed instruments. Then the most wretched of sounds began. This was not a stringed quartet. This was a torture session. Darcy was quite certain of it. How could the Smith-Smythes unleash this horror onto society at large?
Darcy, though, while forced to listen to the Smith-Smythes, did not watch them perform. Instead, his attention was held completely by the young woman beside him.
She was quite a petite little thing, he realized, when placed against his tall frame, perfect for nestling against him if only propriety would allow. Pen was always perfectly polite, keeping her eyes directly on the stage except for the short interlude when Miss Eloise was signaling to her from down the row. He would not be surprised if the subject were not the elusive Lord Black.
“Lemonade, Pen, or would you prefer punch?” he asked when the caterwauling was finally at its end.
“Oh, punch,” she decided with a small smile. “Sometimes lemonade can prove too sweet.”
“Indeed,” he agreed before he took her hand, kissed it, and then disappeared toward the refreshment table.
On his way, he passed Lady Featherington who smiled at him graciously before she made her way toward her daughter. No doubt he was the subject they were to discuss. Darcy was used to Mamas trying to catch him for their daughters. The only difference now, though, was that Pen had never tried to catch him and he was trying to convince her of the merits of such a plan. Her Mama was entirely irrelevant to the proceedings.
He dithered to give Pen time to speak to her Mama before rejoining the ladies with three cups of punch—one for each of them.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” Lady Featherington greeted, accepting her punch. “How kind of you. I do not believe you have met Penelope’s sisters—Prudence and Philippa. They sing and play much better than the Smith-Smythes.”
Pen’s bright blue eyes were wide and staring at her Mama in horror. “We will not ask them to perform for Mr. Darcy,” she demurred, accepting her glass from him with a smile. “Miss Darcy is quite skilled at the pianoforte.”
“Is she?” Lady Featherington asked in politeness. “How wonderous! I suppose Miss Darcy is not yet out.”
“No, she is not yet seventeen,” he agreed.
“I look forward to her debut,” Lady Featherington said with a smile. “It is always such a special time in a young lady’s life.” She looked over Pen critically before her lips once again turned into a smile. “Mr. Darcy,” she said in farewell before she disappeared into the crowd.
“She likes you,” Pen confessed as she leaned toward him, her voice low so as not to be overheard.
“She certainly has failed to ask how we know each other.”
“I told her I was out with the Bridgertons—” she told him carefully. “All of London will soon know Lord Bridgerton has an attachment to your ward, Miss Swan.”
“And Lady Whistledown will be the one to tell them,” Darcy agreed darkly. “Will you be darting about in carriages in servants’ clothing on the morrow, Pen?”
Her eyes looked up carefully toward him. “So what if I am?”
“What happens,” he asked carefully, “when your mistress writes about us?”
“Us?” she questioned.
“Yes,” he agreed. “You and me. What happens when Lord Featherington arrives, and I ask for your hand in marriage?”
Pen squeaked and looked up at him with her wide blue eyes. “Are you,” (she licked her lips) “Is that a question you are likely to ask him?”
He took her half-emptied glass from her hand and placed it on a passing tray, along with his own, “I rejoiced when I learned you were not a servant, Pen, and it was not for the simple pleasure of your company.”
“We are, of course, friends—” she demurred.
“Pen,” he sighed, “you know we are not merely friends.” His green gaze looked down and held her own eyes, willing her to understand the truth.
Her breath catching, she looked down and she nodded. “I had thought it only a passing fancy for a servant—” she admitted.
“It was not,” he affirmed.
Her eyes flitted back up to his and she gave him a soft smile. “I do not need much,” she murmured, “I do not need to dance nor do I need to be admired.”
“But do you wish to dance?” Darcy asked her solemnly, which caused her head to snap back up.
“I hardly know.”
“Then perhaps,” he suggested, “we should find out.”
It seemed that Pen’s sister Philippa’s fiancé, Mr. Finch, was allergic to flowers and had a sneezing fit, but Darcy handed in both Pen and Lady Featherington into their carriage at the end of the night, having secured the appointment for a promenade the following morning.
It was half past ten when he finally arrived at White’s on the back of his black charger, and Darcy knew that Bridgerton was probably waiting for him. He had had matters of his own heart to attend to, however, before he could see to Miss Swan’s—and it was good to make Bridgerton wait.
The rooms were warm and full of gentlemen, and he asked a footman to show him to Bridgerton as they had an appointment. He found Lord Bridgerton taking whiskey with the Duke of Hastings, the two having been old friends from Cambridge, but Hastings quickly scampered off when Darcy arrived.
“Pleasant evening?” Bridgerton asked.
“I saw your sister, Miss Eloise,” Darcy commented. “She was hiding from Lord Black.”
This caused Bridgerton to chuckle. “The more she runs, the more he chases.” A new glass was set on the table and Bridgerton poured Darcy a double.
The two men just sat for a long moment until Bridgerton removed a cigar from his pocket, asking permission. He soon had it lit and was blowing smoke circles. “Miss Swan,” he opened, “told me she hails from the frontier.”
This surprised Darcy. They had never actively talked of what lay behind the door. He knew there was a ballgame, not unlike cricket, in a storm. He knew that there had been a threat, and she was running away from it, when she had opened the door to a horseless carriage and entered his library instead. She had told him she had been in Forks, Washington. That, he supposed, was the frontier, though Darcy had always supposed it to be a small village outside of the United States capital.
“Her father was a gentleman, I can assure you,” Darcy promised, although he understood that the designation of ‘gentleman’ did not quite exist beyond the door. “The frontier called to the wildness in him. There is no such wildness in Isabella Swan.”
“There is a curiosity in her,” Bridgerton mused, “to go searching for an English sunrise.”
Darcy smiled a little to himself, thinking of his ward and her poetry. “The soul of a poet, perhaps,” he suggested. “You, too, then were looking for a sunrise—Is this how you met? She never told me.”
“Indeed,” Bridgerton agreed. “I shared my breakfast with her.”
“Which explains why she barely eats breakfast,” Darcy mused, thinking about how little Miss Swan ate. Changing tactics, Darcy told Bridgerton, “Her parents are quite gone. She is a member of the Darcy household and has ten thousand pounds at my pleasure,” he informed Bridgerton. “Not as much as some, perhaps she is not exactly an heiress, but it is respectable. I trust this is suitable.”
Bridgerton hesitated as if he wanted to ask a question, but then decided against it. “Yes, quite suitable. My sisters have similar dowries.”
“You have four sisters, I believe.”
“Yes. Daphne is ill. We do not expect a recovery.” A sadness washed over his features. “You have met Eloise.”
Darcy nodded. “When shall you ask?”
“Tomorrow at sunrise,” he told Darcy unrepentantly. “That is our time—before the world awakens.”
“I trust you will return with Miss Swan to Darcy House for breakfast,” Darcy practically ordered. “I can still call you out, you know.”
“I know,” Bridgerton agreed. “I would be happy to escort Miss Swan to breakfast.”
“We will have the banns read in Derbyshire as soon as I’ve finished my inquiries into your character.” Bridgerton looked at him. “You would do the same for your sisters, would you not?—Miss Swan can be married from Pemberley unless she has some particular attachment to London.” He breathed out through his nose. It might be better if they remained in London. It would mean Darcy would not have to be parted from Pen even though the season was quickly coming to an end. “Miss Swan is particularly close to Miss Darcy. I would say they are as close as sisters.”
“I can understand that,” Bridgerton agreed. “You and Miss Darcy will always be welcome at Bridgerton House or Aubrey Hall.”
Darcy nodded in understanding.
Once business was concluded, the Duke of Hastings wandered back over and the gentlemen celebrated the upcoming engagement. The Duke was a confirmed bachelor at the age of thirty-one, which amused Darcy to no end. Darcy pulled himself together at half-one and fell into his bed, not realizing that his room smell of roses.
“May I hide here?”
Darcy opened his eyes and found himself in the field of paper flowers. Everywhere he could see there were blooms of pink and purple and blue and the forest was so far away he had to squint to see it. Beside him was Miss Eloise Bridgerton in a gown of blue silk, her hands behind her back.
“Please?”
“Should you not ask Penelope?” he questioned her, but Miss Bridgerton was now twirling among the flowers.
“Potter—that is, Lord Black—cannot find me here,” she mused as she tripped over her own skirts and laughed. As he watched her dance, Darcy realized just how young she was. She twirled and she skipped and she jumped and she stepped, and then, when she stopped, Miss Eloise blinked up at him. “She fancies you, you know.”
“Who?” Darcy asked.
“Pen,” was Miss Eloise’s answer. “I remember when she met you. It was like she was keeping a secret.”
A secret, was it? This surely intrigued Darcy. “Has Pen never had a secret before?”
“Of course, Pen has had her secrets,” Eloise told him. “It is only—” She paused and looked at Darcy. “This was different.”
The sky shifted and Darcy looked up to see the candied clouds float over the sky, awash with purple. What was this world he dreamed of? What was this place?
A small hand slid into his and he turned to see Pen standing next to him. They were once again alone in the field of paper flowers, Miss Eloise Bridgerton having vanished. “I have dreamt of this every night,” she admitted, reaching down and picking a blue rose. “What do you think it means?”
“Means? I think,” a thought niggled at him, but Darcy breathed out, “it is an enchantment. I am enchanted, Penelope.”
She turned to look up at him, the round curve of her face soft, and she smiled at him. “Surely the great Mr. Darcy of Pemberley could not have been enchanted by a servant girl.”
“Could it not have been thus?” he whispered, leaning down and cupping her face. “You have bewitched me body and soul.”
The clouds scattered across the sky leaving only darkness behind them and Darcy woke up suddenly, blackness streaming in through his windows. Blinking awake, he reminded himself that Miss Swan might very well be up and he should probably catch her. The room smelled of roses.
Dressing without his man, Darcy made his way down to the empty kitchens and stood in a corner until a candle came down, heading toward the back exit.
“I wanted to warn you,” Darcy said into the darkness, and the candle stopped midair. Darcy looked at the looming figure behind it and sighed. “Lord Bridgerton means to propose. He has my permission, but if you are not ready, you have merely to say so. I know that customs are different behind the door.”
The candle lifted up and came forward until it was just in front of him, illuminating the face of Isabella Swan.
“My parents married young,” she admitted. “I never thought I would, but my mom was only eighteen.”
“You are young,” he agreed, “at seventeen. He is a man in his prime at one and thirty.”
She breathed out her nose. “I did not realize.” Miss Swan paused. “How old are you?”
“Seven and twenty.”
She nodded. “And you are not married?”
He took a moment to consider. “I have not informed you or Georgiana yet, but I mean to marry this season. The young lady has nineteen years, I believe.”
“Closer together,” she admitted.
“Not by much.” Darcy took the candle out of her hand and set it on the kitchen table. Taking her hands in his, he told her, “There have been more unequal matches that have proved successful, Miss Swan.”
She smirked at him. “If we were beyond the door, you would call me ‘Bella’ and I would call you ‘Fitz’.” Darcy must have looked affronted as she amended, “’Darcy’ at least.”
“But we are not behind that door—whatever mysteries it holds that we mere mortals cannot comprehend are unknown to us,” he murmured, looking into her large doe eyes. “Is this a truth you can keep from your husband? You can never tell him you came from a time other than Regency England. You cannot speak of horseless carriages or rainstorms or ballgames or—what was it?—electricity.”
“Electricity,” she agreed, glancing down at the candle. “Indoor plumbing.”
“We have—” Darcy began to refute, but she interrupted him,
“Not like we have.”
“I gave Lord Bridgerton permission, if he should be accepted, to escort you back here and join our breakfast.” He squeezed her hands. “You are as much a Darcy as Georgiana or myself, Miss Swan. Your fiancé is most welcome here.”
“I shall be a Viscountess,” she whispered to herself.
“That is true,” Darcy agreed. “You know my uncle is an Earl—”
“Yes,” she agreed quickly. “However, such things never touched my life. The longer and longer I stay here, the more and more of a fairytale this becomes.” She blushed in the half-light, her cheeks and neck stained pink in the dusk. “I shall supersede dear Georgiana in importance.”
“For now,” Darcy agreed. “But she is not yet out. She might make a brilliant match. She is the granddaughter of an Earl. It is entirely possible that, like you, she will marry a title.”
Bella nodded after a long pause. She picked up the candle and looked at Darcy and then, quite suddenly, asked, “Do you dream of the field of paper flowers?”
He startled.
“I thought I saw you there last night,” she confessed. Shrugging, she made her way to the kitchen door, blew out the candle, and exited.
Darcy remained perfectly still from his place in the kitchen, wracking his mind. Had Miss Swan been in the field of paper flowers? He had seen Miss Eloise Bridgerton there. Pen had been present. Sometimes Darcy thought he saw a coffin made of glass through the trees, but that was all. Still thinking, he went back up the stairs and into the main house, which was finally beginning to waken.
He read the paper three times, had four cups of coffee, and probably scared Georgiana with his taciturn silence at the breakfast table before Miss Swan turned up back at the house, escorted by none other than Lord Bridgerton. She did not skulk back through the kitchen, but instead came in through the front door, and the couple was announced.
Georgiana looked up in surprise, but Darcy had been expecting it.
“Well?” he asked, not beating around the bush.
“Well,” Miss Swan agreed, taking off her morning gloves and reaching out her left hand which had a ring on the fourth finger. “I daresay I am engaged to be married.”
“Oh, Isabella!” Georgiana cried, coming around the table and embracing her friend. “I am so happy for you. Are we not happy for her, Fitzwilliam?”
“Most happy,” he agreed, waiting for his turn to inspect the ring and kiss the bride’s hand. Darcy clapped Bridgerton on the back and offered him coffee. The two men shared a long glance. “You must tell Georgiana exactly what was said for she shall surely wish to know.”
Georgiana looked between Miss Swan and Lord Bridgerton happily.
When the wedding was being discussed, Miss Swan was entirely congenial. “We can, of course, have it in Derbyshire; however, we’re already all here. Why do we not have the bans read here and have a small private ceremony in a month?” she suggested. “I know that will delay your autumn plans, Mr. Darcy, but it will save the entire Bridgerton household, of nine members—yes?—having to go up to Derbyshire.”
“The Colonel is also here in London,” Georgiana also pointed out helpfully.
Miss Swan blinked. “Do you think he’ll want to come? We’ve never met,” she wondered.
Georgiana glanced at Darcy, then turned back to her friend. “He is almost an honorary Darcy. I do not see why not. We must also have more wedding guests on your side of the aisle. Fitzwilliam, Mrs. Ainsley, and I are rather a poor showing.”
Darcy did not add in that he would certainly be bringing Miss Penelope Featherington, either as his fiancée or his bride. That made at least four bridal guests.
Bella breathed in through her nose. “I don’t care about such things,” she admitted.
Georgiana opened her mouth to object, but Darcy made a sign that she should keep her counsel.
Of course, it only took two days for Lady Whistledown to hear of the engagement, which was the exact same day that The Times published the announcement.
Gentle Readers, Whistledown wrote, I promised to update you on the mysterious romance that the Ninth Viscount Bridgerton found himself embroiled in after abandoning this season’s Diamond. Lord Bridgerton has chosen a Miss Isabella Swan, a woman of American heritage and little dowry who has little to recommend her other than the turn of her face and the fact that she is the ward of the illustrious Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire. How long this clandestine relationship has been taking place is anyone’s guess, but this author can now confirm that an engagement is not only imminent but has in fact taken place. Shall we begin to see Miss Swan in society now that she has captured the ton’s most eligible bachelor or will she continue to hide in the shadows?
Darcy did not read the column until just before dinner, but as soon as he had, he went to the music room where he found Georgiana, Miss Swan, and Mrs. Ainsley. Copies of the gossip sheet were on the pianoforte and next to the sofa where Miss Swan was sitting.
“You have read it, then?”
Georgiana looked up from the pianoforte. “We have.”
Miss Swan was staring at her book of poetry.
Darcy looked between the young women. “Miss Swan?” he asked.
“It’s the truth, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice rather unaffected, but it could have been a front.
Darcy was rather agitated. It was long after calling hours so he could not go see Pen. He left the room, however, and penned a note to Lady Featherington, asking to see her daughter the next morning regarding a matter to do with Miss Swan. This should give Pen context for the conversation without raising expectations.
He and Miss Swan were going to dinner with the Bridgertons that evening, so there was nothing more to be done.
His own toilette took little more than half an hour, though he heard Georgiana coax Miss Swan back to their rooms earlier to get dressed. He ended up drinking brandy while he was waiting for her. When he closed his eyes, he thought he smelled the scent of paper and roses—the scent of dreams—but he hoped it was surely no more than simple fancy.
It was the first time that Darcy had seen Miss Swan in the family colors. She was wearing a dark green evening dress with black lace and cap sleeves. Her hair was swept onto her head and it seemed like she had green rosettes in her hair.
“Do I look alright?” she asked carefully, looking up at him with doe eyes.
He came up to her and held her by the shoulders away from him so he could take her all in. “You look like the quintessential Darcy, Miss Swan,” he complimented. “You should wear our colors more often.”
She blushed, the tinge of pink fluttering across her decolletage.
“When we went shopping, Georgiana insisted I get this one evening dress in case of emergencies.”
“Well,” Darcy agreed, “she was right.” Releasing her, he offered his arm. “Shall we?”
They went to the door, collected Darcy’s cape, walking stick, hat and gloves, along with Miss Swan’s evening gloves and wrap, before they went out to their waiting carriage.
“Anthony,” Miss Swan recited, “though never in public. Then Benedict, Colin, Daphne is unwell, —er, Eloise.” She took a deep breath. “Francesca is in Bath. Then,” she paused. Darcy waited for her to remember all the Bridgerton brothers and sister. “Gregory still is with his tutors and then there’s Hyacinth! What a name.”
“You may have to name your children in alphabetical order as well,” Darcy warned her. “It seems to be a family tradition. Are any of the other Bridgertons married?”
“No. Miss Eloise has a suitor in the Earl Black, but Lord Bridgerton is the first to become engaged—to me,” she added a little self-consciously.
“You are setting the standard.”
She rolled her eyes, in the way she sometimes had. “Yes, a time traveler from twenty-first century America.”
He reached forward and placed his gloved hand over hers. “No one can compare with that,” he told her firmly. “Your outlook on life is so broad and grand that the rest of us are insignificant in comparison.”
Breathing out through the nose, she squeezed his fingers. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”
“You are loveliness itself,” he complimented as he reclaimed his hand. “I cannot see any possible objections the Dowager Viscountess can possibly raise.”
Miss Swan bit her bottom lip, making it a dark pink, but she was merely nervous. It was a short drive between Hanover Square and Grosvenor Square, and they were soon there.
Darcy handed Miss Swan out of the carriage and glanced over at the Featherington household, seeing that the lights were on, knowing that Pen was there. He shook himself out of his thoughts, and escorted his ward to the door, where their accoutrements were taken and they were then shown into the Drawing Room.
There were indeed many Bridgertons and they all looked very similar. Each Bridgerton had dark hair and blue eyes, Miss Swan fitting in with them almost perfectly except for her large doe eyes. Miss Swan was immediately swarmed by the women, including the Dowager Viscountess and Miss Eloise, while Darcy was requisitioned by the Bridgerton brothers.
“Ah, yes, Penelope.”
Darcy’s head immediately whipped around to the brother who had recently returned from Greece—Colin Bridgerton, Darcy believed his name was.
“She was here visiting El when I arrived home earlier today. She is such a wonderful correspondent.”
Darcy looked this puppy of a boy up and down, not liking the look of him at all. He was tall, certainly, not quite as tall as Darcy, with a baby face and bright blue eyes. No, Darcy did not like the look of this puppy at all.
“Miss Penelope Featherington?” he asked nonchalantly.
The boy’s eyes widened. “Yes. Do you know Pen?”
“I am courting her,” Darcy informed him firmly. His eyes held Colin’s. “She is a rather singular woman, do you not find?”
“—Y-Yes,” Colin Bridgerton stammered. “She’s a real brick.”
Darcy decided he really did not like this Colin Bridgerton and would have to keep an eye on him. How long had he been in Greece? Why was Pen his correspondent? Was there any kind of attachment between them, even if it was one-sided? Darcy would have to ferret out the answers and now it was even more imperative that he secure Pen as quickly as possible.
He glanced over at Miss Swan and she seemed to be comfortable in her conversation. That was well, then.
The family dined en famille, which was certainly an experience for Darcy. He was unused to dining with children. He was seated next to Miss Eloise Bridgerton on one side and the Dowager Countess (who was at the foot at the table) on the other.
“Mr. Darcy,” Lady Bridgerton, “I understand you have another young lady under your charge.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “my younger sister, Miss Georgiana Darcy. She is only sixteen years of age.”
Taking a sip of her wine, Lady Bridgerton wondered, “Will she and Miss Swan miss each other when Miss Swan marries?”
“Undoubtedly,” Darcy agreed. “They are nigh inseparable. I had hoped they would come out together in a year or two and get married at the same time, but it seems not to be the case.”
“The best laid plans always seem to go by the wayside,” Lady Bridgerton seemed to agree. She seemed to be thinking. “Eloise—I had heard you had a rather odd plan to get rid of Lord Black—”
“Yes, Daphne,” Miss Eloise replied cryptically, picking up her glass and taking a long drink from it. “If he loves me, he will do it.”
Lady Bridgerton seemed shocked, but soon put on a false smile on her face as she turned away from her daughter. “The difficulties of being the steady influence for young women, Mr. Darcy. I am sure you understand completely, being the only influence to two young charges. What have you found most difficult in your duty?”
Darcy glanced at Miss Eloise and remembered Georgiana’s ill-fated elopement attempt with Wickham the previous summer when she was fifteen years old. “I found that without the influence of a friend, a sister, it was quite difficult to quell a young lady’s more passionate inclinations. As soon as Miss Swan became my ward, I found the task much easier as Miss Swan and my sister, Georgiana, evened out one another.”
“Indeed,” Lady Bridgerton stated, clearly interested. “How fascinating. You did not find that they wound each other up?”
“No, Viscountess. Quite the reverse.—Miss Swan is more mature than Georgiana and had a good influence over her.—She is undoubtedly also more poetic,” he added.
Laughing lightly, Lady Bridgerton returned to her plate. “Poetic, is she? How wonderful. None of my girls have proven poetic. I look forward to it.”
When the evening was finally over, Darcy escorted Miss Swan back into the carriage and she released a long breath. “I think I survived.”
“You more than survived,” he assured her. “You were a triumph. The Bridgertons are looking forward to welcoming you as the next Viscountess.”
“And to think you had to teach me proper table manners not six months ago!” she gasped as the carriage began its journey back to Hanover Square.
Darcy reached out to her and placed his hand gently over hers. “You are every inch a lady. No, you were a triumph. The Bridgertons know their good fortune.”
“I am only sorry that Georgiana shall spend the Autumn alone in Bath for the benefit of the Masters,” Miss Swan sighed, speaking for the first time of her life after the marriage occurred. “I will be in Hampshire at Aubrey Hall and you will be in Hertfordshire with your friend Bingley.”
He looked up, his green eyes shining in question, and he murmured, “I never told you his name.”
She stilled, “You didn’t?”
“No, I did not.”
Miss Swan hummed, clearly uncomfortable. “Did Georgiana tell me?” she wondered.
“Was it Georgiana?” he asked her firmly.
There was a blackening silence between them. Then, Miss Swan whispered, “Don’t be angry.”
Darcy had no idea what he had to be angry about.
They spoke no more about it in the carriage but when they arrived home, Georgiana was waiting up for them. Darcy immediately approached her and said, “Miss Swan and I have to discuss her marriage portion. She will be up presently.” Kissing Georgiana’s forehead, he sent her to bed like a child before indicating that Miss Swan should follow him into the small library.
Immediately pouring them two drinks, he offered her one, but she did not take it.
“Please tell me this has to do with what lies beyond the door and has nothing to do with you prying through my personal correspondence. I allow you to keep track of my invitations because I cannot be bothered with them and have been much engaged with business since I arrived in Town, but, Miss Swan, if you have been reading my personal correspondence—”
There was a rush of fabric, and immediately he felt two small hands on his arms and he turned to see Miss Swan’s large doe eyes staring desperately into his verdant gaze.
“God, no,” she promised. “I would never read your mail. If I pick up something by accident, I always put it aside. No, it has to do with the door, I swear it. I didn’t tell you because I—I” she swallowed worriedly. “I didn’t want to influence anything.”
“Influence what?” He grabbed her by the arms and stared into her eyes, looking for a lie. “What would you influence?”
“There is this novel. It takes place in Regency England. It is a love story about a—a woman and a Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. The thing is, I’m not in it. Mr. Darcy has a sister named Georgiana who—who—I’m sorry, Georgiana tried to run off with Wickham at Ramsgate. I don’t know if that happened, and I’m sorry if they’re lies. I’m so sorry,” she begged, tears in her eyes. “But then you were up in Derbyshire, without Georgiana because I was with her, and you came down to London on business—and in the book—in the book—” She swallowed again and looked away.
“What, Miss Swan? What was in the book?”
Miss Swan licked her lips. “In the book you met with a—a Miss Elizabeth Bennet in Derbyshire and she received a letter about Wickham and her sister Lydia—and you returned to London on business, which was to facilitate their marriage.—When you came down here I wondered, was Miss Bennet in Derbyshire? Were you gone until past midnight searching for Wickham and Miss Lydia? Have you been home now because they have been found? Or—or was the book completely wrong? Did it just use your names or have I just destroyed everything that was supposed to happen because I’m here?”
Darcy looked at Miss Swan and he saw only confusion and desperation in her eyes. Carefully, he led her to a chair and set her down before fetching her the discarded glass of brandy and handing it to her.
Sitting near her with her glass, he admitted, “It is as you said. Georgiana did try to elope with Wickham. You have been instrumental in Georgiana regaining her confidence and self-worth, for which I can never repay you.”
She turned in her seat to face more fully toward him. “Really? It happened?”
“It did.—And Miss Elizabeth Bennet did come to Derbyshire and I was with her just after she received a letter from her sister, Jane, about the intended elopement of her sister, Miss Lydia. The business, as you guessed, was to find her and Wickham. This was all in a book?”
“A novel. A love story.”
He glanced at his hand, at his pinky finger which held his family’s signet ring.
“With whom?” he questioned carefully.
Miss Swan hesitated.
“I will not be offended,” he told her, “even if your presence has changed the course of events of this novel.”
“You did say you were to be engaged this season,” she agreed carefully. Miss Swan took a sip of her brandy and then admitted, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Darcy looked up at her in confusion, “Miss Elizabeth?” He had discounted her nearly a fortnight ago, it was inconceivable to him now that he would ever want that woman for his wife. “It is not Miss Elizabeth.”
She blinked over at him. “It’s—not?” Miss Swan licked her lips again and took another sip of her brandy. “Then you will not go to Netherfield and propose to her now that her family is saved from ruin?”
“I will go to Netherfield with my bride unless she wishes to spend the autumn months at Pemberley,” he stated firmly, “which may very well be her wish. I do not know as we have not discussed it. I have yet to propose.”
Miss Swan swallowed. “Do we know her?”
“Probably not,” he admitted. “You are not out, after all.”
“Of course,” she agreed, setting aside her glass. “I wish you every happiness, Mr. Darcy, and look forward to the time I am introduced to the future Mrs. Darcy.”
“Thank you,” he replied graciously. “What else does this book say?”
“Lady Catherine wishes for you to marry her daughter, Anne,” she admitted carefully.
“Unfortunately true,” he agreed, sighing. “Still, Lady Catherine cannot object to the Fifth Lord Featherington’s daughter.”
Miss Swan’s doe eyes widened. “No, I imagine not. Does that make her ‘Lady’—”
“No. ‘Miss,’” he informed her. “Not a word to Georgiana.” He stood, setting aside his untouched glass.
“Of course,” she agreed, standing herself.
Considering, Darcy asked, “Are there more such books?”
Miss Swan paused. “Six?” she shrugged. “Then again, I could have been living in a book myself beyond the door and had no idea of it.”
Darcy walked her out of the small library and saw her to the stairs, certain that Georgiana was waiting for her. Miss Swan breathed out of her nose before ascending the stairs and disappearing from his view. He went to his study and found the latest missive from Bingley, wondering whether or not he would go to Hertfordshire that Autumn. He knew he was in no danger from Miss Elizabeth, having all but forgotten her as soon as the business with Wickham and Miss Lydia was concluded, but spending the autumn months with his bride at Pemberley certainly had merit.
That night he dreamt he was alone in the field of paper flowers. He was walking through them, his coat thrown over one shoulder, his shirt sleeves blowing in a light breeze. Darcy’s fingers dipped to touch the petals and he wondered where Pen was, if she was dreaming of him, or if she was dreaming of Colin Bridgerton.
He woke up with a gasp on his lips, a blossom on his pillow.
Darcy saw Pen immediately after breakfast the next day. Lady Featherington was in the drawing room, teaching one of the other daughters how to fan herself, which meant they were left very well enough alone.
“I trust you have read Lady Featherington,” he asked carefully, showing her the gossip sheet.
“I have, yes,” she agreed. “It could have been much worse.”
“Worse?” Darcy wondered. “It practically accuses them of an embroilment and deprecates Miss Swan for being an American.”
Pen glanced down at it and turned the sheet so she could read it. “What do you want me to do about it?” she asked carefully.
“You work with Lady Whistledown—”
“I have no influence,” she objected, glancing at her mother.
“You have every influence,” Darcy decried. “You are her arms and legs. You might even be her eyes and ears.”
“I could not possibly be the lady’s eyes and ears,” she refuted. “Just because I may be her arms and legs does not mean I can influence—”
“You could take out a quill and scratch out—” Darcy suggested.
“I would never—”
Darcy’s eyes practically glowed green.
Pen carefully collected herself. “The Viscount Bridgerton is the most eligible catch of the season. The most eligible match was the Viscount and Miss Edwina Sharma. When he called it off, gossip was rampant. If Lady Whistledown did not publish this rather tame piece of news about Lord Bridgerton and Miss Swan—”
“Tame?” he badgered.
“Tame,” Pen affirmed. “Someone would have got there first.”
Darcy paused and looked at Pen for a long moment. “How did Lady Whistledown know? The only people who knew were Lord Bridgerton, Miss Swan, Miss Darcy, and myself.” He thought. There was, of course, Mrs. Ainsley, but she had proved that she kept her counsel. “And you.”
Pen went absolutely still.
“I told you that my ward was engaged.”
Then the truth settled over Darcy. “You are not the compatriot of Lady Whistledown. You are not her arms and legs. No, you are she.” He stood, careful to control himself (for Darcy was forever in control), and bowed. “Miss Featherington.”
“Mr. Darcy,” she begged, as she stood with him, but his eyes only flashed green at her.
He turned to Lady Featherington and bowed to her pleasantly and took his leave.
He heard rushing fabric behind him which was undoubtedly Pen, but he took no notice of her.
Darcy had been foolish in love with Elizabeth Bennet, foolishly proposing marriage at Rosings Park. He would not make the same mistake with Penelope Featherington in London! He had most certainly learned from his mistakes. He would not align himself with a gossip mongering shrew.
Unfortunately, Darcy dreamed of Pen. Every night he remained in London for Miss Swan’s engagement he would find himself in the field of paper flowers of pink and purple and blue and she would be waiting for him, never speaking, but always walking along with him. Some nights, he would take her hand, other times he would simply stare at her beautiful face and wonder that he should never see her again.
Then, one afternoon, Georgiana came and found him in his study.
She knocked twice and he called for the person to “enter” and she popped her head in.
“Isabella will not show you,” she apologized, “but I thought you should see.” Georgiana was dressed regally in the Darcy colors of dark green, her brunette curls placed on the top of her head, her verdant eyes shining out of her pretty face.
“What is it?” Darcy asked, standing from his seat. Coming around his desk, he was surprised to see that Georgiana was holding out a Lady Whistledown gossip sheet. “What has she written now?”
“See,” Georgiana urged, handing it over to him.
In the third paragraph, the most perplexing news was written:
For those who are not aware, for the past year the eldest Bridgerton daughter, one Miss Daphne Bridgerton, has been ill and has been unable to receive visitors. The doctors have been unable to give a proper diagnosis. Then, today, it has reached this author’s ears that Miss Bridgerton has not only made a full recovery but has married her younger sister’s beau, the Earl Black. The Earl and Countess Black were seen promenading and picnicking with the larger Bridgerton family in Regents Park. How does Miss Eloise feel given that she has publicly stated that she wished Lord Black would go hang himself? What was this mysterious cure, and how did Lord and Lady Black meet? These are questions, dear reader, that this authoress is willing to ask and hopefully learn the answer to!
Darcy looked up and met Georgiana’s eyes. “I remember Miss Eloise trying to hide from Lord Black,” he murmured. “I wonder what this is.” He handed back the gossip sheet. “What does Miss Swan feel?”
“She knew Miss Bridgerton was in a coma.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “I will sort this out.”
He kissed Georgiana on the head and called for the carriage.
Lord Bridgerton was fortunately in. However, he was not very forthcoming. “Isabella will have a full accounting once we are married. It is a family matter.”
“I have been assured she was in a coma yesterday.”
Lord Bridgerton looked uncomfortable. “As I said, Isabella will have a full accounting once we are married. Until then, Daphne would very much like to meet my future wife. She is more than thrilled that I am finally to wed.”
Darcy looked at Lord Bridgerton carefully. “I am not satisfied.”
“Nor do I expect you to be,” Lord Bridgerton agreed, pushing himself up from where he was resting against his desk. “I would not be in your position.” He sighed. “At least you do not have to endure Eloise’s changeableness. She is going to be the ruin of me.”
“Sisters are difficult,” Darcy agreed carefully. “Perhaps if you and Miss Swan promenade tomorrow with Lord and Lady Black? I shall be in attendance, of course.”
“Of course,” Lord Bridgerton agreed. “That sounds perfect. I will have Mama pack a basket. Eleven o’clock?”
The gentlemen shook on it.
Still, Darcy dreamed of Pen. She was always wearing those hideous colors: bright yellow, bright pink, bright orange. Surely she would not choose such colors for herself. Surely her Mama was the one with such horrible taste in fashion. He remembered how beautiful she looked in mourning. And how Darcy longed to see her in the Darcy colors of dark green! Nothing would please him more. However, he could not quite forgive her the gossip sheet. The season was drawing to a close and with it, everyone would be dispersing to their country estates. Miss Swan would soon be married and retiring to Hampshire with the rest of the Bridgertons. Georgiana would be going to Bath and Darcy, it would seem, would be traveling alone to Hertfordshire. He did not know where the Featherington seat was. He had to remind himself he had no right to know.
Before the sun rose, there was a knock on his door.
Darcy did not realize it was not part of his dream, so at first ignored it.
Then there was a tug on his shoulder.
He woke up to find Miss Swan looming over him, a candle in her hand.
Immediately sitting up, almost ramming his head into hers, Darcy took her in. Miss Swan was dressed in a dark blue muslin and a gold pelisse, her hair pinned to her head and day gloves on her hands. “What is the matter?” he asked.
“There’s a servant here to see you. She seems distressed.”
“What?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.
“I—I was going out to see Anthony—to see the sunrise,” she explained (and was not Darcy surprised to learn that they were still meeting in secret even though they were engaged?), “and I found this servant at the back door waiting to see you. She’s very distressed. She’s asking for you by name. I think you should come.”
Darcy was only in his shirtsleeves, but he found a waistcoat and, lighting another candle, he followed Miss Swan down the backstairs to the kitchen.
“I hope Lord Bridgerton walks you home,” he told her plainly before she ducked out the door. “London is not always safe for a young lady before dawn.”
She smiled up at him. “I’ll be sure to invite him to breakfast,” she promised, surprising him when she reached up and kissed his forehead before she scampered away.
Darcy looked out into the alleyway and held his candle aloft until he saw a form in the shadows. “Who is there?” he called.
A moment later, a small form emerged and he was surprised to see a blue hood and ginger curls.
“Pen,” he breathed, reaching out and pulling her into the kitchen. “What are you doing? It’s not even dawn!”
She lifted up her round face, her cheeks chubby and her lips smooth, only to show tearstains marring her natural beauty.
“Pen,” he murmured, wanting to reach out, but knowing that propriety would not allow him to act. “Why are you here?—and dressed as a servant!”
“I will give it up,” she bargained, her voice warbling. “If you were serious in your attentions to me. I will give it up at the end of the season. I will just close it off like I did last season and not come back.”
Darcy looked into her beautiful bright blue eyes, but he held himself back from answering. His heart ached, but Darcy was afraid to commit to Pen after having been burnt before.
“I never wrote about Wickham,” she told him, “about Miss Lydia, about Wickham’s previous elopement attempts. I never wrote about—how you share the same eyes and hair.” She looked away, ashamed. “I never wanted to hurt you, Mr. Darcy.”
“You did hurt me.”
Her bright blue eyes looked up. “It was unintentional. I never wrote about Miss Swan and Lord Bridgerton meeting in Hyde’s Park before dawn. I kept that out.—You have to believe me. I wrote the bare minimum. I—” she bit her lip daintily, and Darcy looked down at her carefully. “I love you too much,” she admitted. “There, I have said it,” she turned back toward the door, as if to leave, but Darcy grabbed her arm and swept her into sweet, tearstained kiss.
Her words soothed his aching soul. Her reassurances were everything that he needed to hear. He was already weak before from nights of dreaming of her in a field of paper flowers. Standing before him was his Pen, the girl he had fallen in love with, and Darcy would be damned if he let her go again.
Kissing Penelope Featherington was like kissing softness. She was all curves and smoothness and poutiness and Darcy loved it. He had to reach down to hold her, but he lifted her up in his arms and could lose himself in his embrace. Pulling away, he ran his thumbs over her tears. “Dry your eyes,” he murmured. “I love you, too.”
“You do?” she asked, a little breathless.
“Yes,” he promised, leaning down and kissing her again. “And at ten this morning, because I must promenade at eleven, I shall come ask Lady Featherington for your hand in marriage.”
“Oh,” she sighed. “The new Lord Featherington arrived. Come after you promenade. Cousin Jack will be in his study. He’s come to make everything right.”
“Well, then,” he smiled, tapping her on the nose. “We shall do just that.” And, because Darcy could not help himself, he drew Pen into another kiss.
Excentryke's Musings 